


Fall into It

by Catznetsov



Series: Love Thy Goalie(s?) [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Intersex, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Pregnancy Kink, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: Who the fuck owns paper porn, Nate thinks.But the easy answer’s there, isn’t it, Braden would own paper porn.





	Fall into It

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a shared ‘verse which will follow multiple storylines. Hop on over to Aetherseer’s Caught Off Guard to read the start of Jakub’s story or Ruin the Friendship for Nicke Backstrom and Jay Beagle. The different series will be complementary but don’t have to be read in any order.
> 
> All characters in the ‘verse will be intersex, ie, with human sexual anatomy of various forms outside the typical definitions of ‘female’ or ‘male.’ These are not representations of all intersex people. My intention is to communicate the relevant details of sex acts for you in tagging, while resisting descriptions that gender/‘sex’-code specific anatomy. Everything else about gender in this is silly.

July 2, 2017

Nate wakes with someone else’s sunshine on his face. He can feel his bondmates’ warm shapes flanking him, holding him safe, sweet clean cotton and resin-bitter in his mouth and a hot weight on his belly. 

His stomach is cussing a blue streak at him, but that’s alright, because Braden owes him about a week straight of breakfasts. Nate doesn’t want to cook anything today; he wants to settle in the window seat and watch like a queen cat while they do all the busywork he usually finds grounding for him. He doesn’t need to take care of anyone today to feel in control.

It’s easy to let his mouth fall open, search across the pillow for someone to fill it. Now low in his belly is aching, making him bear down inside and work his hips towards something, whatever, but he finds empty space in the sheets, his mates’ thighs too politely far away. At least the touch on his belly is there to answer the ache.

When he pushes a lazy hand down over his own ribs that turns out to be Braden’s iPhone, overheating in the sun.

He opens his eyes, and considers the situation. After a few even breaths he decides to say, “Fuck,” because there’s no one to hear anyway. That’s only sunlight beside him, on linens that still smell like someone who’s supposed to be sleeping here. 

“Bloody hell,” he tells Braden’s ceiling fan, and spends a couple minutes contemplating the crown molding, lemony plaster and blonde wood lovely in the morning light. Braden has stupidly great taste in everything, and Nate usually nods along and wishes he had anything to add.

Braden’s partner seems stupidly great.

Nate growls, digs his fingers into his belly hard, like that will wake him up, but he’s well awake and running hot again and whatever he told himself last night that’s not alright. In the moment he does the only thing he can think of, and snatches up the phone to throw it across the room. There’s a muffled thunk where it lands.

Nate pauses, and debates. On the one hand that sounded like rug, and it’s likely fine, but on the other he just hurled his friend and host’s phone to the floor and he has to check on it, and that means getting out of bed, which is one fair way of keeping him from touching himself.

When he swings his legs over the edge of the bed they feel strange, sweet like the exhaustion after a run, absolutely relaxed. He sits there, rubbing his palms over the tops of his thighs, and then pushes up to go collect the phone.

Once he’s there, kneeling on the rug for no particular reason other than that it felt easier than asking his legs to hold him while he bent over, he’s on an eye level with the built-in drawers under the bed. Philipp had told him it’s alright to look in those drawers.

There’s a stack of cheerfully-colored cardboard boxes inside. The first one turns out to be full of chocolate pretzels. 

He eats a packet of them and a handful from the monster-sized bag of Haribo, sitting there on the floor, listing in so his forehead rests against the duvet, ruched up just a little from how he’d toed at it last night. The last thing he wants is to have to go downstairs, and with food in front of him it’s as if he has permission not to for a little while longer. 

Most of the things you’d expect in a pants drawer are gone for the summer, just a couple folded t-shirts and the kind of faded-soft boxers you’d save to sleep in and then forget. Nate slots the top of the box of pretzels carefully back together, but then he’s fucked up something in how the boxes were balanced and he can’t quite get it back in with the drawer half-out. He tugs the handle and it slides more than he was bracing for: it’s built through the bed so that the drawer on this side is the same as the drawer on the other, just a divider in between. Nate loves the design; his stomach twists itself around how it seems to be inherently and limitedly for two _partners_, not a full trio, and then he sees the crinkled glossy paper poking over the divide.

The double drawer slides all the way out onto the floor. Philipp had told him it was alright, Nate thinks, but then Philipp has been away all summer, and Braden has been here alone. 

For a minute he believes the one on top is a catalogue. It’s a delicates drawer, and you have to buy the things occasionally, if you aren’t Travis. And then what happens next is on him, because embarrassment doesn’t stop him opening it up. 

The first model he sees is pretty in panties, so he can’t see their clit to tell by the size if they’re beta or omega, and no clue to their gender. The second is not. And then on the next page one model is tucked up behind another, hands reaching around and slipping under their t-shirt to bare an awful lot of golden curves.

Who the fuck owns paper porn, Nate thinks, obscurely furious. 

But the easy answer’s there, isn’t it, Braden would own paper porn. The logo looks indie; it feels like recycled paper, which is Braden’s favorite excuse not to learn to use the internet. Nate stuffs it back, and then under it are the stack of novels and the DVDs.

Nate doesn’t have to, but he can read the cover copy. He knows what he’s looking at, and he knows, or knew, that they make dirty O/O films for alphas, not just the ordinary stuff with an omega and a beta so it’s like the audience’s dream trio. It’s not quite nice, not something Presented grownups talk about, but they’ll imply punchlines about how an alpha might like to see two omegas kissing like that, like they are right there on the DVD case his finger is trailing over.

He didn’t ever think Braden might be like that, would like that, and he’s wondered about what it would take to make Braden like _him_ plenty. He grabs the case to drink it in, fumbling back onto his heels then tipping slowly over onto his ass, and it doesn’t matter because he has to close his eyes against a dizzy heat. He thinks about Braden holding this, watching this, his own eyes warm, heavy-lidded, soft mouth drifting open, and then it’s Braden watching _them_, another omega sweet in front of Nate.

Nate’s hands can trace over gracious curves, shy until he finds their shirt hem and pushes it up—his hand flies up to his own chest, rubbing, wondering how sensitive they’ll be when they start to fill for regular heats. Right now he’s mostly aching, but he kneads in and tastes sparks anyway. An older omega would probably like that even more, let him work them, maybe cup their own hands over their chest when it’s blooming with a heat and show him. Or maybe they'd catch his hands instead, press him back and meet him for a kiss until he can imagine Braden’s voice rumbling approval, and it’s getting stupid pretending Nate doesn't know what and who he's thinking of. 

Nate fists his hand in his shorts, deliberating, and then he stands up and drags his singlet off, steps out of them, leaves it all where it falls. The bed is there and this time he tugs the covers down and slips under them, settling warmth and then welcome heat over him. This time everything he wants doesn’t feel like an absence, it’s surplus, shining out through his skin. 

This time he can admit what he’s picturing, soft hair and dark, dark eyes. Long lush legs, and broader hands than Nate’s running up them, the way Nate is skating fingers over his own thighs now. He just savors the soft feeling of the skin of his inner thighs, where they rub together, and then thicker hair brushing his thumbs. He works the knuckles of them up, fingers still spread aching hot over his thighs, and he’s rewarded with a flutter of wetness through curls. 

Last night it had been so good to lock his legs together, but now he’s thinking about nudging between someone else’s. It takes more trust to relax into the touch, even remembering they’re his own hands, but he thinks about how good it would be to be given that trust, and then about Braden’s arms close around him.

Nate’d read the back cover copy. He knows what those films are about, silly porn scenarios that suddenly ache through his stomach when he imagines he’s the lucky delivery guy or who the fuck ever who gets the omega of the house tugging him down onto the couch, tugging off Nate’s top and then graciously letting Nate unbutton his own. That Nate’s staring up at those little pink tits and soft pink mouth and softer sighs as Nate works his fingers under lingerie like that model in the nudie mag had on, and Nate’s the one who hears the door as Braden comes home, and instead of looking angry Nate’s the one who gets to see Braden staring at them like he’s starving for more than the abandoned pizza. Nate should be the one who gets to skate his fingers through the dark curls down Braden’s chest and thick belly to pop the button of his jeans, palm the head and then feel long delicate fingers in his hair as Braden feeds it to him, warm weight all around and inside him, as Philipp and Braden kiss over his head. 

Even as Nate’s opening his mouth against the pillow, opening his legs to let his fingers slip and circle his clit, part of him’s pouting. He wants to think about Braden coming in his mouth, but then he doesn’t, unsatisfied, because Braden can’t just do that. Nate wants everything and wants it different and wants more. Nate read the cover copy on some of those films, and flipped to that third page of the magazine. 

Who even thinks that’s a particular kink, Nate might have said before, but that’s easy, Braden would. And maybe Nate would’ve said that just because it turns out he likes the idea pretty well too. 

He thinks about holding a bondmate as Braden does his best for them, face red, eyes bright for them, tries his best to get their baby on him. Nate’s baby, even if he doesn’t carry them; his partner’s sweet curves against his chest, smile tucked against Nate’s cheek, nothing but his.

“Well that’s an awful idea, bud,” Nate says when he gets his breath back, and resolves not to think about it again until he’s had another handful of Haribo.


End file.
